


For Water and War

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: Requests/challenges/etc [9]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Rape, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Gawain, as he falls for Lancelot, tries his best to respect the Champion's relationship with the Queen.He has no idea how many ways a man can be wrong on just a single assumption.
Series: Requests/challenges/etc [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673452
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

One Knight, his King had told him, one Knight of his choosing to accompany him on his latest Quest. One Knight, Kay had been quick to reiterate, only one so that there were enough Knights left behind to defend Camelot should the need arise while Gawain was away.

One, Gawain made it clear he understood, hoped his tone relayed that he knew the time he accidentally spurred a hundred and then again half that number Knights to try to join him on a Quest he never undertook anyways.

There was a power there, he thought, that the King and his foster-brother believed he would have the King's Knights follow him with just a word, that he tucked into the back of his mind with a quick, silent prayer that he would never have to use that knowledge, nor that power.

He requested Lancelot, naturally. It was a time of peace, he figured, and the King's Champion – and, if rumors were to be believed, the Queen's lover – was off on his own quests often enough that seeking his company and his company alone would be acceptable at the very least.

“You will pick another or you will go alone,” his King cautioned him, “for he is somewhere else entirely, doing what he did not say.”

“I will go alone,” Gawain said with a bow and left.

–

He followed rumors, at first, then the bodies until he managed to catch a story from an innkeeper about a lone Knight who beheaded a man at a maiden's request.

From what Gawain could tell, the man had deserved it and the maiden had not made the request lightly. Lancelot was nearby, he knew it.

The only sorrow Gawain could feel over the whole tale was he was two days too late to have caught the Champion before he moved on.

–

The King's Champion and the Knight of the Sun finally collided at an inn whose name had long been worn off its placard be wind, rain, and sun.

“Lance,” Gawain said as he slid into the seat across from the Champion.

“Gawain?” Lancelot looked up from his cup, eyes unfocused and something etched on his face that Gawain had never seen before. It was gone almost instantly, could have been a trick of the light if Gawain had been wanting to forget the etchings entirely, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Gawain answered honestly.

“Am I needed back at Court?” was Lancelot's first reaction.

“No, no,” Gawain waved his concern away, “I am on a quest of my own and was told I could bring one Knight with me.”

“So what brings you here?” Lancelot asked again.

Gawain stared, jaw hanging for a moment, feeling as if Lancelot was making fun of him. 

“What else would I have chased you halfway across the land for?” Gawain felt he was snapping at the Champion, “I was hoping you would accompany me.”

“Oh,” Lancelot's eyes were just slightly more focused, “Oh. Of course.”

“Excellent,” Gawain felt as if a weight had been lifted from his mind, “Do you have more business to attend before we begin?”

Lancelot shook his head no and returned most of his attentions to his ale.

If Gawain was disappointed, he chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the fact Lancelot had agreed to accompany him.

–

The next morning, Gawain found Lancelot waiting, already dressed in his riding clothes, in the tavern below the inn.

“Where are we headed?” Lancelot asked.

“Not to rescue anyone, if that's what you're worried about,” Gawain assured him.

Less than a year had passed since they had rescued the Queen. The whole thing, while it had been a success, had also been just one damned thing after another.

If the Queen needed rescuing again, Gawain decided, he would plead with his uncle to send an army, not let his Champion attempt to do it alone.

Lancelot seemed relieved by this. Gawain choose not to ask questions in that regard. Lancelot and the Queen, he figured, both had too much to lose by exposing the nature of their relationship, regardless of what the truth may be.

“Where are we headed?” Lancelot repeated his question.

Gawain paused, then: “I will tell you once we are on the road.”

Lancelot nodded.

–

“I wish to seek the Green Chapel,” Gawain told Lancelot once he was sure they were far enough away from the town that they were truly alone.

“The Green Chapel?” Lancelot asked, incredulous, “From your stories I had assumed you never wished to go back there.”

Gawain sighed, a heavy thing.

“Truth is I would not,” Gawain told the Champion, “but there is a spring flowing there that Lud hinted was sourced from Avalon itself and I wish to fill a skin with its waters to take into battle.”

Lancelot made a thoughtful sound. “You have not revealed this to the Court before.” 

There was an accusation there, one Gawain heard despite the level, neutral affect Lancelot managed to inject into every word.

“What good would it do?” Gawain asked, “What would happen when someone finds themselves too deep in their cups and mentions it? When the Green Chapel finds itself raided, pillaged, by men who would not know the gods if they slaughtered them in their own greed?”

“And yet, you have told me,” Lancelot noted mildly, as if it was of no consequence.

Gawain could have throttled him, then, the modesty ill-fitting for the Champion and his most beloved friend.

“I trust you,” Gawain hoped the three words had so much more to offer than the simplicity of the statement.

Gawain waited so long for Lancelot to reply that he would up suggesting they set camp for the night before a reply happened.

–

Gawain lined up his shot from twenty paces away, took a deep breath, held it, and loosed the arrow.

It struck true.

They would have rabbit for breakfast.

–

Lancelot awoke to the smell of woodsmoke and mostly raw meat.

“Gawain?” Lancelot asked, still half asleep.

“I should hope so,” Gawain replied from where he was tending the fire, “I've caught us breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot said with a yawn.

Gawain expected Lancelot to begin readying himself for the day, but instead the Champion drifted back to sleep, face so relaxed and shoulders not so tight they drew a straight plane from end to end that Gawain allowed himself the indulgence of staring while breakfast roasted.

_Shit,_ he realized, _he's beautiful._

–

It was near another week of riding, camping on the side of the road, and hunting and foraging for their food before Gawain was confident that he had, indeed, picked the correct direction to go in.

“Two more days,” Gawain told Lancelot, “and then the real work begins.”

“If you are using a week of easy riding as your measuring stick I worry you may have a lighted definition of work than I,” Lancelot was... _was_ Lancelot teasing him?

“The work of a Champion and the work of a Prince are undoubtedly different worlds,” Gawain wasn't sure if he was teasing or bitter.

Lancelot made a sound that sounded like a quiet laugh. Gawain pivoted in his saddle to get a better look and sure enough, there was a small smile on Lancelot's face that nearly reached his eyes.

_Shit,_ Gawain feared he may one day get used to being blindsided by how deeply his affections for the Champion ran, _shit._

–

Gawain held up a closed-fist hand to tell Lancelot to halt his horse. When he heard the hoofbeats cease, Gawain dismounted. Just behind him, he heard Lancelot do the same.

“Gawain?” Lancelot looked around, “I don't...”

Gawain took a deep breath, centering himself. 

“I come back,” Gawain seemed to be speaking to the trees, “I come back knowing what this place is and what powers it holds. I request entrance, and seek the Lord and Lady of the Chapel.”

Their horses began to shift, tried to skitter off as the trees themselves shifted and then faded away. Lancelot did not blame them and only resisted the temptation to join them in their flight because Gawain was so calm about what was happening. A pure white chapel – not green as Lancelot had expected – came into focus as everything stopped changing around them.

Gawain's face set in a grim line and Lancelot doubted his decision not to take his cue from the horses instead.

“Come on,” Gawain said with an exhale so loud it could have been a well-masked sigh, “we can tie the horses up by the doors.”

Lancelot, as he had been doing since they began this quest at the tavern over a week ago, followed Gawain without hesitation.

Gawain blamed the churning nerves of his stomach at willingly re-entering the place he had learned of all his failings as a Knight.

–

Lancelot was in awe of the chapel's interior.

“It's,” he breathed, “it's like another world.”

“It may as well be,” an amused voice came from somewhere Lancelot could not discern, “Welcome, Gawain and his companion.”

Gawain bit back the urge to explain that Lancelot was his better, not his companion.

“Well met, Lord Lud,” Gawain called out.

“What brings you back?” Lud shifted from the shadows to the sides of the building, “Not that I would complain, but I have a feeling this is not a visit strictly of friendship and reconnection.”

Gawain's first instinct was to lie, but he'd learned there were no secrets kept from Lud the hard way.

“The spring,” Gawain said, “I come to claim a skin full of the waters of Avalon for myself.”

Lud's face hardened.

“Come,” he beckoned to Gawain, “we will talk.”

Gawain went and, again, Lancelot followed.

–

They found themselves in Lud's kitchen, his wife busying herself with preparing a meal for everyone while the spoke in hushed voices despite the privacy.

“After all theses years,” Lud addressed Gawain directly, “why do you wish for some of the waters for yourself?”

“For entirely selfish reasons,” Gawain said without preamble, “There are whispers of War in the wind for all who know how to listen. I am getting older and I fear if there is a battle at night I will not survive it and I wish to cheat death just one more time before I give him what h undoubtedly believes he was owed long ago.”

Lud laughed, a thing so loud that Lancelot flinched away from the sound before making a quick recovery.

“Oh my dear Sun Champion,” Lud laughed, “You both know what you want and do not know what you ask for.”

Gawain ducked his head, being called a Champion of any sort in the presence of Lancelot seemed _wrong_ in ways he cared not to find descriptors for.

“What do you say, dear,” Lud called to his wife, “shall we send him off with what he seeks?”

“I do believe we could,” she called over her shoulder, “but know this, Fair Gawain, once we seal it for you, it can only be opened once. After that, you will find yourself with a regular water skin.”

Gawain nodded, realizing he would not get to see the spring for himself.

–

“Travel well,” Lud touched his forehead to Gawain's, one hand on the side of Gawain's face, “and remember: this is a gift you can only use once.”

“Unlike the girdle,” Gawain nodded, “Thank you.”

Lud released Gawain and looked to Lancelot. “And you, King's Champion, is there nothing you wish to send you on your way?”

“Your gift to Gawain is gift enough for me,” Lancelot said with a small bow, “as was your hospitality.”

“In that case, go well and in strength,” Lud returned the bow with a nod, “Take care of each other.”

Gawain nodded, unable to shake the feeling that he had asked too much of Lancelot.

–

It would be three days back to Camelot by Gawain's best estimate. The small skin Lud had gifted him was tied to his belt alongside his purse, unwilling to leave it anywhere but next to him.

When War came, not if War came, he did not want to find himself without it.

On the morning of the second day, Lancelot initiated conversation for the first time in their entire quest. “You did not tell them what your quest was for, did you?”

Gawain did not need to ask who Lancelot was talking about. Once again, he was about to ask more of Lancelot than he felt fair.

“I did not,” Gawain admitted, “I asked to go on a quest of a personal nature and they said I could take one Knight with me.”

“And you could have ridden there and back in less time than it took to track me down,” Lancelot pointed out, “Why did you seek me?”

Gawain debated, for a moment, to let the last of the chapel's magic that still hummed just under his skin to tell Lancelot the truth: That he valued the Champion's company, that there was no other Knight he wished to spend his time with, that he found himself moving away from affection between Knights to something that ran much, much deeper and while he would never act on the budding desires he would find satisfaction enough in what he could get, letting the Champion's voice, skin, hard lines fill the moments he found himself alone at night with only his hand to keep himself company.

Instead, he said, “Because there is no one else I trust with a secret like this one,” a small sigh, “and had my returning with such a request not been well met, no one else I trust to give me a burial that doesn't feature my head up my own ass.”

Despite the gravity of Gawain's statement, Lancelot laughed, the mental imagery too much to do much else with.

–

Gawain and Lancelot made their way to the throne room together to announce their return and Gawain's successful quest.

“You succeed and bring us back our Good King's Champion,” Guinevere's eyes were on Lancelot, not Gawain, “Well done, Sir Gawain.”

“Well done,” Arthur echoed, following his Queen's line of sight, “In three day's time, we will celebrate the return of you both.”

“Sir, M'Lady,” Gawain managed a deep bow, keeping his eyes up to meet theirs, neck furious with the controtion.

He was getting _old_.

“My King,” Lancelot bowed to Arthur first, then to Guinevere, “and My Queen.”

“You may go as you please,” Arthur told them both, not quite a dismissal but definitely permission to leave.

Gawain noticed how the Queen was staring at Lancelot, even as the Champion excused himself, and decided that seeing the effect wine had on scrubbing his desires for the Champion from his mind.

–

The wine, Gawain found, had the opposite effect, even drinking alone to avoid the effect other drunk Knights may have on self-pity and self-confidence alike.

“Imma do it,” he said to the dark room he called his own, “I'm tell 'im.”

He staggered to his feet, then down the hall, up stairs, down stairs, up stairs again, down and across more halls than he was sure the castle usually had.

When he finally got to the Champion's rooms, he did not knock before entering.

In the low light, he could make out the Queen riding Lancelot, one hand on Lancelot's stomach and the other holding one of his hands to her breath.

He hurried to shut the door, mind suddenly clear but the blood that would normally have supplied his brain rerouting itself.

He fled back to his rooms, feet managing a much more direct route. He barely had the door shut behind him before he sank to the floor, one hand in his hose, stroking himself.

He imagined himself in place of the Queen, Lancelot buried to the hilt inside of him, well-muscled planes of the Champion warm and inviting and he came with s shout, Lancelot's name mingled into the cry.

–

Much later, when the sun's first rays had announced dawn had arrived, Gawain having long since cleaned his mess and feared wearing a hole in the stone of his floors from the pacing he was doing, he realized he needed to assure Lancelot that the secrets of his affair were safe with him.

It was a painful walk, Gawain's fledgling heart in shreds as he resigned himself to however many years of pining for the Champion were in store.

It was more than selflessness, he'd managed to convince himself, but the same line of thinking that had kept him from announcing he knew a place where Avalon and this world connected.

_What good would come of making it known?_

He knocked once, twice, then a third time to avoid repeating the same mistake his wine-induced state had lead him to just a few hours ago.

Nothing.

He opened the door slowly, a careful peak into the view the opening allowed, relieved to find only one body on Lancelot's bed, sleeping soundly.

He would wake the Champion, he decided, instead of delaying this any longer.

He let the door shut behind him.

As he neared Lancelot's bed, he noticed the smell of blood.

“What?” Gawain's eyes went wide and fear took over.

The bedding was stained with more blood than normally indicated a live man. Gawain turned Lancelot over and put a hand just in front of his nose and mouth. When he felt the smallest puff of air, he began to weep.

Gawain nearly ripped the vial off his belt and poured it down Lancelot's throat, holding the Champion's head and upper body up to ensure he swallowed up.

“No no no no no,” Gawain said over and over to himself, examining the deep, barely scabbed over gashes that ran from the inside of Lancelot's elbows to his wrists. The deeper one, Gawain could tell, Lancelot had inflicted on himself first.

Gawain had now known what to expect, only that the waters of Avalon had healing properties that nothing on Earth could surpass. 

When the wounds began to knit themselves closed and Lancelot began to stir, he sobbed again.

Lancelot's first instinct was to shove Gawain as hard as he could. Gawain staggeded off the bed and onto his feel, stunned.

“No,” Lancelot breathed, eyes wide and pupils almost impossibly small, “What have you done?”

“Me?” Gawain cried, “What have **you** done?”

“I finally had some fucking peace!” Lancelot spat, “I had my fucking escape and you _ruined_ that!”

Lancelot's voice was shrill, hysterical.

“Look, Lance,” Gawain held up his hands, “I'm not going to tell anyone what I saw. I promise.”

“Not going to -” Lancelot's jaw dropped, “Oh, of course, that would have been you, wouldn't it. Couldn't have been someone who _would_ let the King know what it looked like.”

“What it looked like?” Gawain echoed and, _Oh shit,_ Gawain realized _those were some awful implications._

“You think I want her?” Lancelot asked as he forced himself to his feet, “You think I want the Queen, like every other bastard who thinks I am deaf to rumors in the King's court?” Lancelot clenched his fists and took an unsteady step towards Gawain, “Me, the Champion, deaf to what swirls around the court of the very King I am sworn to protect to my death, regardless of cost?”

Gawain took half a step back instinctively.

_Take care of each other,_ Lud's words echoed in his head.

Gawain put his foot back down and squared up to stop Lancelot from whatever he was about to do.

“I may have misread the situation,” Gawain admitted, an understatement, while he vowed never to touch himself again, especially not while dreaming about riding Lancelot.

“May have,” Lancelot's single-syllable laugh was an empty thing. He took another step towards Gawain, clearly expecting the Solar Knight to take a step back.

Lancelot had a near two hands' breadth on Gawain and they were proportionate to the other in musculature, as if the Solar Knight was a miniature version of the Champion. And, sure, Gawain had the first rays of dawn on his side should Lancelot decide to turn this into a genuine fight, but Lancelot had blind rage and fresh trauma _and_ the waters of Avalon on his side.

And beyond that, Gawain knew he would go out of his way to avoid harming Lancelot.

No matter the personal cost.

All the sudden, Lancelot's habit of avenging women who had no other avenue to revenge made sense. The Champion never took any joy in the actions, but perhaps joy was a thing Lancelot believed had no place in his life.

Lancelot took a swing.

Gawain taught it.

“Come on,” Lancelot half-goaded, half pleaded.

“No,” Gawain refused.

“Come _on,_ ” Lancelot repeated, a new type of fury driving him.

Gawain dodged the next blow, hoping if he tired Lancelot out, the Champion would end his attempts at starting a fight on his own.

–

The dawn had shifted into morning proper when Lancelot finally, finally sunk to the floor. A sob wracked his body, his hands covering his face.

“I'm sorry,” Lancelot choked out, then repeated over and over between sobs.

Gawain knelt down in front of Lancelot, hands on his own knees, prayers to any god or spirit listening to give Lancelot reprieve from whatever had taken over his mind silent as he watched, helpless.

Reaching out to touch the Champion seemed wrong.

He waited, and Lancelot eventually said, “I do not wish to be here.”

“You can come back to my rooms,” Gawain offered and then added quickly when Lancelot recoiled, “I will stand watch at my door so you may rest as well as you are able.”

They both stayed where they were, frozen, for a moment that stretched on so long it tested Gawain's ability to hold still before Lancelot finally gave a small nod.

Gawain rose to his feet first. He offered Lancelot a hand, and Lancelot refused it.

Gawain headed towards to his room.

Lancelot, whether out of newly formed habit or trust, followed.

–

Gawain sat at his door, the position a mockery of a secret he would take to his grave, shame and sorrow and fury coursing through his veins as Lancelot slept on the other side of the room. There was no peace, no beauty on his face, just exhausted pain.

The pain echoed the etchings Gawain had seen at the tavern when he'd caught up with the Champion at the beginning of his quest, the flash he chose not to ignore or blame the low light of the flames in the night.

The knowledge that he had the power to rally his fellow Knights with less effort than the Good King himself danced around his mind.

He _had_ cheated death one last time, he realized, just not on his own behalf.

When the War came, he wondered, would it be a force from outside the castle walls, or one rallied from within.

He had a feeling he knew the answer.


	2. War

It started with a whisper, and not even one of Gawain's.

His youngest brother, the brother who had so clearly not been sired by the same father, came into his chambers one night, drunk and enraged, so far gone in his own head he nearly started confessing his sins to Lancelot, who laid sleeping on Gawain's bed, rather the Gawain who'd taken up sleeping on a servant's pallet by the door – the Champion's guard, even in his sleep.

“Hey,” Gawain grabbed Mordred by the upper arm, “I'm here.”

Mordred, rather than asking what he was doing on a servant's pallet or what another man was doing in his bed, confessed to discovering the Good King was also his father and more than that, the Good King had ordered a massacre of all baby boys born near the time of his own birth, a ship full of children sunk, the number of survivors unknown.

“There is no Good left in our Good King,” Mordred spat, “just a Faith of his people so badly misplaced.”

Gawain looked between his brother and the still-sleeping Champion, considering his next words carefully.

“Perhaps there are some truths that deserve to be shown,” Gawain kept his voice low, “but, for now, sleep. We can talk in the morning when you will remember everything the both of us say.”

–

Why Mordred had gone to him rather than than Agrivane – the brother Mordred had always been closer to – was beyond him, but he was thankful. Had Agrivane been roused in the middle of the night, there may not have been a plan formulated, only Agrivane's tendency to lash out in blind rages he had neither the skill or strength to finish on his own.

Gawain saw Lancelot to the council chambers before promising to return in a moment with Mordred in tow. He made as much of a show as possible about the process, the Table's entire focus on his over-stated gestures and apologies.

–

“You need to get up,” Gawain said as he hauled Mordred to his feel.

“Oh gods,” Mordred's stomach lurched, “How much did I tell you.”

“Probably all of it,” Gawain told him, “No. No apologies or telling me to forget it. I won't and you have nothing to apologize for.”

“But-” Mordred tried to argue.

“You're right,” Gawain straightened Mordred's tunic and smoothed his brother's hair a bit, “there is no good left in the court. But now is not the time to strike.”

Mordred let Gawain drag him to the Table, stunned into silence and complacency but the uncharacteristically sure fury Gawain carried.

–

Gawain took his time, of which he had little, casing each Knight within and outside of the Round Table, seeing who he could rally to fight beside him when the time came.

Lancelot slept in Gawain's bed almost every night he was at court, exhausted, haunted. Gawain slept on the pallet regardless if Lancelot was there or not, fearing Lancelot would come in after he'd gone to sleep, see the bed was occupied, and leave for somewhere he was left vulnerable to the Queen's assault.

Agrivane dragged Gawain by the shoulder one day, not releasing him until they were well-secluded.

“What is this Mordred tells me about you telling him now is not the time to strike?” Agrivane hissed, the closest thing to a whisper he could manage.

Gawain made a snap decision to relay to Agrivane what Mordred had relayed to him.

“I figured he was only partly our brother,” Agrivane said once Gawain's words had settled into his mind, “Massacre?”

Gawain nodded, eyes turning to steel.

“There is no good left in the court,” Gawain told Agrivane what he had told Mordred, “but to strike now, when the court is still strong, would be little more than death.”

Agrivane nodded, jaw clenched and eyes equally hardened.

“Brother,” Agrivane caught Gawain by the upper arm as Gawain was about to leave, “Lancelot. What is your business keeping him as you do?”

“That business is mine,” Gawain pulled his arm free, “please do not ask me more than that.”

Agrivane huffed a breath out, a sound near a quiet mocking laugh.

“Whatever your business with him,” Agrivane did not try to stop Gawain from leaving again, “do not let it cloud how you guide Mordred's rage.”

“I won't,” Gawain chuckled, a humorless thing, “trust me.”

–

Gawain was volunteered for a Quest that took him across the waters, and far, far away from Lancelot.

_“I'll be back as soon as I can,” Gawain promised._

_“Don't leave me here,” Lancelot pleaded, tears in his eyes, running down his face, “Please, please don't leave me here alone.”_

_“Go to Mordred,” Gawain told him, “tell him I said to. He'll listen._

Gawain looked out at the endless expanse of water and hoped Mordred would, indeed, listen.

–

Lancelot spent the better part of three days trying to catch Mordred alone, the young prince and Knight nearly always in the company of one of his other brothers.

For three days, Lancelot did not sleep, did not eat, only paused to rest in out buildings and the stables where he knew he could remain hidden, memories of the last time he'd let his guard down chasing him like a starving predator that could smell the blood that still flashed across the back of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

The waters of Avalon hadn't even left a scar behind, leaving himself and Gawain alone to know what he'd done.

On the third day he saw the Queen trying to single him out across the morning's banquet hall. His heart sank, the reality that what he'd managed to avoid since the night Gawain pulled him from death's clutches suddenly so, so unavoidable.

“Ah, Sir Lancelot,” he heard Agrivane's voice call to him, “there you are.”

Relieved but horrible confused, he turned towards the second-eldest Orkney brother.

“We were wondering if you might help us in the arena today,” Agrivane told him, “You see, our dear Gawain is absent and has lately taken to improving out reaction time between strike and second strike. Would you honor us with your skill and wisdom?”

Lancelot's face morphed into a barely-concealed frown, the formal language and louder-than-needed volume from a Knight who previously had never said more than the scantest of words to anyone besides his brothers unless forced to speak them was sending the part of his mind in charge of baseline instinct into fight-or-flight mode.

If he flew, there was the Queen rapidly closing in on him.

Fight it was.

“I would be honored,” he told Agrivane, “lead the way.”

–

The brothers, Lancelot realized, had a lot of raw, brute strength behind them but not much self-control. Every swing was one they wanted to kill should it make contact, but that lead to difficulty pulling back to strike again.

He spent so long trying to teach them the importance of using their shoulders as an anchor point rather than the sole driving force of their swings that the sun was disappearing behind the trees when he finally told them to start wrapping up and head to dinner.

“Sir Lancelot,” Agrivane was the last one in the ring, “you seem to mean a great deal to my brother.”

Lancelot swallowed despite the sudden dryness of his mouth. If he had to be stuck with one of them after a full day of training and an utter lack of sleep, why was it not Mordred as Gawain had told him to seek?

“Gawain is kind of heart,” Lancelot tried to avoid the subject altogether, but he knew how the brothers could get. When they wanted to know something, they became a unified, unrelenting force, dividing the work between however many of them were currently at court.

“I doubt he would agree with your assessment,” Agrivane said, no heat behind the sharp words.

“Well perhaps kindness is a virtue given to others rather than stated for one's self,” Lancelot suggested.

“Hmn,” Agrivane tried to shrug, the armor suddenly so heavy and his body exhausted, “Still, I feel he would have some choice words for the state you are in.”

Mordred, divested of his armor, trotted back to the training ring. “You two coming?” he asked.

“In a moment,” Agrivane dismissed his brother. Mordred tilted his head sideways, the curious look on his face out of sync with everything Lancelot knew about the young prince. “Mordred,” Agrivane warned.

“f you're talking about Gawain,” Mordred spoke plainly, “it's likely nothing I don't already know.”

“What about Gawain?” Lancelot felt there was something he was being left out of, something he hadn't been told, hadn't picked up on.

Mordred and Agrivane exchanged a Look and then looked back to Lancelot.

“That he loves you,” Mordred said plainly.

Lancelot's jaw opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out.

“My brother and I will be taking supper in his room,” Agrivane volunteered Mordred and his room without consulting him, “If you wish to join us you will not find yourself sent away.”

Lancelot froze as the brothers walked off, the strangeness of the whole encounter and the warmth Agrivane was displaying alarming beyond both reason and words.

–

“Do you think he'll come?” Mordred asked Agrivane.

“I do not know,” Agrivane said around a mouthful of stew, “Do you believe Gawain loves him?”

“I do,” Mordred picked some meat off a bone fragment before popping it in his mouth, “Or, at the very least, there is some secret between them that has caused our brother to harden his soul and shirk some of his oldest habits for the Champion.”

“Perhaps he has found someone who is willing to share his bed more than once,” Agrivane suggested.

Mordred shook his head. “Gawain sleeps on the servant's pallet and lets Lancelot have the bed.”

Agrivane's eyes widened, this part news to him.

“Perhaps,” Agrivane said slowly, “whatever the cause is, we can use it to our advantage.”

Mordred nodded this time. “Gawain thinks the time to strike is still far away, but you and I both know his reasons to strike and our are so, so different, even if he will not speak of his.”

“I have never known Gawain to keep something so close that it was impossible to get him to reveal,” Agrivane agreed, “Love, though?”

“Love does strange things,” Mordred shrugged, “At least, that is what I have heard.”

Agrivane snorted a laugh.

–

“All this for a fucking sack of rocks,” Gawain muttered as he pried the bag of uncut jewels from the dead man's hands, “These things had better be magic or something because their fucking crowns already have more than enough rocks in them.”

He signaled to the company he'd been stuck with to start getting ready to pack up and go home, the room still littered with dead and dying bodies, all bent at horrific angles.

This was, he feared, a bullshit fetch quest the Queen had made up to try to get Lancelot alone.

If it was, he decided, waiting be damned. If anything happened to Lancelot because he could not refuse a Quest the King and Queen requested of him, he would bring the War to Camelot from within.

–

Despite everything, Lancelot chose to have his dinner delivered to Mordred's room.

Sure enough, both Mordred and Agrivane were there, already nearly done with their meals.

“Ah, come in,” Mordred waved him in.

“Thank you,” Lancelot told them as he let the door shut behind him, slowing the closing with the heel of his foot.

“Come, sit,” Agrivane beckoned him.

Lancelot sat on the edge of Mordred's unused servant's pallet.

Agrivane used his first two fingers to swipe some stew residue off the sides of his bowl. By the time he licked his fingers clean, Lancelot was asleep, slumped over on the pallet.

“Huh,” Agrivane said mildly, “Now what?”

“I guess we see if he talks in his sleep,” Mordred suggested, “And if not, we try again to see if we can figure out what's got our brother so attached to the Champion.”

–

As it turned out, Lancelot not only talked in his sleep, but screamed, begged for mercy, for death.

“That's just fucked up,” Agrivane said to Mordred as they listened, watched Lancelot thrash about on the pallet.

–

On the sixth day, the Queen summoned him to the throne room, alone.

He knew what was coming, but knew if he refused it would only make everything worse.

–

Gawain was greeted at the castle gate by Mordred, who was at a run, sword strapped to his plainclothes attire.

“Gawain,” Mordred clasped a hand on Gawain's shoulder, “Gawain, the Queen has summoned Lancelot to the throne room. Alone. We were,” Mordred was panting for breath, “Forbidden.”

Gawain was already taking off towards the throne room at a run, Mordred groaning before taking off after him.

Agrivane was two corridors behind Mordred, youth on Mordred's side, so he turned around when he saw his brothers barreling towards him, letting them pass him and then following again, putting everything he had into keeping up.

They burst into the throne room to see Lancelot curled up on the floor as if an infant, sobbing and begging for mercy, the Queen standing tall over him, face caught between fury and amusement. She looked up when she heard the door crash open, startled and deeply, clearly unhappy with the intrusion.

“Don't you touch him,” Gawain snarled.

The Queen looked at them, angry but calm, a grace trained into her by a lifetime at Court rather than inborn.

“Leave,” she commanded them, “You were not summoned and are thus unwelcome here.”

“I said don't you fucking _touch_ him,” Gawain snarled again, coming to stand between the Queen and the Champion.

Mordred realized Gawain would be put to death for treason.

Drew his sword.

It wasn't his father who'd rather, but it was close enough.

Ran his sword clear through the Queen.

“GO!” Agrivane bellowed, “Gawain, Lancelot, go, run before the guards arrive.”

Torn between standing with his brothers and getting Lancelot as far away from his rapist as possible.

“GO!” Mordred echoed Agrivane's command as he pulled his sword out of the Queen's body.

Gawain hauled Lancelot to his feet and ran, dragging Lancelot behind him.

–

“Go to the stables and saddle two horses,” Gawain told Lancelot, “I will be a moment behind you.”

“Don't leave me,” Lancelot choked out.

“Just a moment behind,” Gawain assured him, “Please. Go.”

Lancelot went, unsteady, confused.

The alarm bells had not began to ring, no warning fires lit.

Gawain ran to where he knew some of the Knights he could count on being sympathetic, to listen to him regardless of the absurdity of the command.

“Rally to Mordred!” he told them, “Tell everyone you can, rally to Mordred!”

He turned back and kept running, this time to the stables.

–

Lancelot had saddled Gawain's horse and then one of his own.

“What is happening?” Lancelot asked.

“Nothing good,” Gawain told him, “We need to get as far away as possible if we want to live.”

“But Arthur -” Lancelot froze halfway through mounting his horse, slid back tot he ground, “I cannot let him -” he broke off his words, panic and fear and exhaustion and panic again taking his mind from him.

_Always the Champion,_ Gawain thought, _even if he knew what she was doing to you._ His fury found even more fuel, propelled him to abandon Camelot, to leave Mordred and Agrivane to their fates despite his love for them.

“He was not in the throne room,” Gawain pointed out, “and will have a wall of Knights and guards between him and any fighting that breaks out. Now come, we have to go if we want to live.”

“What if I shouldn't?” Lancelot took his hands off the saddle, “What if I deserve to die?”

“No,” Gawain tried not to yell, “no, absolutely not. You're going to get on that animal and you're going to come with me.”

Lancelot found himself unable to resist the commands, Gawain's certainty and strength shattering his desire to melt into the Earth and never be seen again.

–

They rode until they got to Joyous Garde, their horses ready to drop and their own bodies exhausted.

The staff and handful of higher-class occupants recognized Lancelot but not the haunted, blank stare he wore.

“Sir,” one of the servants bowed, “we were not expecting you.”

“Neither was I,” Lancelot admitted.

“We will have your rooms ready for you immediately,” the servant said, “And what about the Sir with you?”

“He stays with me,” Lancelot said.

The servant nodded, bowed, and cast Gawain one last curious look before taking off at a trot, barking orders as he went.

“Lance,” Gawain said softly.

“Not now,” Lancelot pleaded, “whatever it is you need to say, not now, please.”

Gawain nodded, deciding to avoid talking altogether for the time being.

–

Lancelot went to his rooms.

Gawain followed.

Once they were alone, Lancelot turned to Gawain, who took two steps towards the Champion-turned-fugitive, bringing them so close together it would not have been a stretch to reach out and touch him.

Lancelot let himself slump forward, head on Gawain's shoulder, and sobbed.

“Lance,” Gawain could hear his own heart break as he said the other man's name. He put his arms around Lancelot, an instinct more than a choice, and held him as he sobbed and sobbed into his shoulder.

_What have I done?_ Gawain wondered.

He may never have the answers, he realized.


	3. Shadows and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kay has a message and a question. Lancelot has a lot to process.

Kay rode through three nights and two horses before he finally arrived at Joyous Garde.

He was greeted by a single, wary servant who asked him his business and not much more before wishing him look with the current guardian of the grounds.

“Gawain!” Kay called into the room he was pointed towards, “Gawain what on Earth are you serving as the castle guardian for?”

“You make a lot of assumptions for a seneschal who'd fled,” Gawain's voice held none of the joviality Kay had grown so accustomed to, “State your business and make it fast.”

Kay sighed and turned to face the direction Gawain's voice had come from.

“Mordred sits on Camelot's throne and Arthur is set to be executed at the week's end,” Kay said, an exhaustion seeping into every word he could not fight to keep back.

Gawain stepped out of the shadows, chewing on his lower lip.

“Are you going to ask us to come to his aid?” Gawain asked, realizing too late the _us_ should not have been stated. 

Lancelot had been through enough already. If Arthur's foster-brother was going to try to stage a rescue, Lancelot would go no matter the personal cost.

“I come to ask the head of the castle to swear allegiance to Mordred,” Kay announced, “And, perhaps, for a place to rest before I move on to the next landed lord.”

Gawain's jaw dropped.

–

Gawain roused Lancelot from his fitful sleep slowly, gently, as far away as he could.

“Hey,” Gawain finally had to touch Lancelot's shoulder gently.

Lancelot work with a sudden start, fist closed and ready to swing but the rest of him rushing to get as far away from the touch as possible.

“No -” Lancelot's broken plea came, “No, don't.” His chest was heaving, his eyes wide and a sheen of sweat covering any and all exposed skin.

“Lance,” Gawain took a step back and held his hands up by his shoulders, palms facing forward and fingers splayed, “It's me. It's just Gawain.”

Lancelot took a moment for the recognition to catch up to the rest of him.

“Gawain, shit, sorry,” Lancelot was panting for breath, “I'm sorry.”

“Forgiven,” Gawain assured him, “And I am also sorry. I would not have woken you if it wasn't urgent.”

“What's happening?” Lancelot meant right here and now, but would have been satisfied to know what was going on in general as well.

“Kay seeks an audience with you,” Gawain found the words to have a strange weight on his tongue, “what should I tell him?”

“I will be down shortly,” Lancelot said.

Gawain nodded and went to leave.

“Wait,” Lancelot was staring. Gawain turned back around. “I am in no state for an audience, even if it is just Kay.”

“He had no riders with him,” Gawain confirmed.

“Gawain,” Lancelot worried Gawain was prepared to leave again, “Help me get ready?”

“Of course,” Gawain promised, and then again, less rushed “of course.”

–

“How do I look?” Lancelot asked Gawain as Gawain finished tying his hair at the base of his neck.

“Ready,” Gawain decided that was a safe assessment.

“Don't feel it,” Lancelot sighed, “Did Kay say what he wants?”

Gawain sighed, hesitated, then said, “To ask you to swear loyalty to Mordred.”

He was fast enough to catch Lancelot as the other man collapsed to his knees.

–

Gawain returned to the room he'd left Kay alone.

“Kay,” Gawain's voice was strained.

Kay turned around to see Gawain alone.

“I see,” Kay frowned, “I'll be going then, I suppose.”

“Wait,” Gawain flinched at the urgency behind the command, “Follow me. Please.”

Kay rose, legs so clearly unsteady and mind so obviously focused on ignoring whatever pain he was in.

“Lead the way,” Kay said with a small bow.

–

Gawain knocked on the door twice to let Lancelot know it was him.

“In,” Lancelot's voice was strained.

“I've brought Kay,” Gawain informed him.

“In, and shut the door behind you,” Lancelot told them.

Lancelot was sitting on the floor, back to the wall and knees to his chest. Gawain had only been able to coax him into a more defensible position on the floor, not to the bed or his desk.

Gawain closed the door behind Kay deliberately, the sound so quiet despite the weight of the thing.

“Gawain tells me you come to ask my alliance to Mordred?” Lancelot asked Kay, managing to look up enough to meet his eyes.

Kay frowned, walked over closer to where Lancelot was huddled, and sat down across from him. From this angle, he could see fingernail marks on Lancelot's hands and arms that matched the size and spread of Lancelot's own, clearly dug both intentionally and during moments like these.

He paused, considered what he knew, how much he did not know, and how much he still needed to tell both Lancelot and Gawain.

“I do,” Kay said, “What else did Gawain tell you?”

Lancelot looked to Gawain.

“That was as far as we got,” Gawain answered for Lancelot.

“Ah,” Kay closed his eyes, “Well, Mordred sits on the throne and Arthur is set to be executed. Agrivane sits as Mordred's Champion.”

Lancelot let out a scream and Gawain was beside him, back angled towards Kay, blocking Lancelot from the rest of the world.

Kay watched Gawain bring Lancelot back to the world and parts of his heart he'd assumed long lost to time and wear broke.

–

“Sorry,” Lancelot said, “Sorry.”

“It's,” Kay looked to Gawain for a cue. Gawain gave none, still focused on Lancelot, “It's forgiven.”

He'd nearly said it was alright, but he supposed that would have been an outright lie with no points of redemption.

“What other news?” Gawain asked.

“The Queen is dead,” Kay told them, “It has been stated that Mordred and Agrivane interrupted her making an attempt on the Champion's life,” he looked at Lancelot, “and almost immediately brought Arthur forward on charges of massacring babies to cover for an affair with his half-sister.”

“And?” Gawain asked.

“I,” Kay's single opening word cracked, “I was able to find the records. Mordred's claims were true.”

“Holy shit,” Gawain breathed.

“Between the Queen's violence and Arthur's willingness to drown babies by the hundreds, it was,” Kay paused, “easy for Mordred to take up the throne as Arthur's sole heir.”

“That's,” Gawain paused, “that's a lot.”

“There's war on the horizon,” Kay said, “but Mordred hopes to stop it before it starts by restructuring the Kingdom.”

“He means to divide what Arthur unified,” Lancelot guessed.

Kay nodded.

“He figures a network of alliances will be easier to maintain than complete control,” Kay explained.

“I can see his reasoning,” Gawain admitted.

“But Arthur united everyone so that those who would rather work their lowest classes to death than pay them enough grain to live would be out of power,” Lancelot argued.

“I can bring that to Mordred's attention,” Kay offered.

“You'd really turn on Arthur?” Lancelot asked Kay, “You?”

Kay closed his eyes before he began to speak again.

“The Wart I grew up with and the former King awaiting his death are not the same man,” Kay said, eyes still closed, “It is the kindest thing, I think, to put whatever monster has replaced him out of its misery.”

Lancelot hated how calm Kay sounded, how much sense his words made.

He was midway through another scream before he realized he was making sounds. Gawain sat next to him, one arm around his shoulders. Lancelot put his head on Gawain's shoulder and let himself Feel for the first time since their flight to his castle.

–

Kay passed out from exhaustion and Lancelot from a different type of exhaustion not long after.

Gawain sat there, Lancelot's weight pinning his shoulder and Kay's sprawling form blocking the rest of the room.

_What have I done?_ he asked himself for far from the first time.

–

Lancelot regained himself first, soul heavy and body drained of any vitality it had managed to gather.

“Hey,” Gawain said softly.

“Sorry,” Lancelot didn't move.

“Already forgiven,” Gawain promised. 

Lancelot looked at Gawain's hand still wrapped around his shoulder.

He kissed it gently.

Gawain smiled and squeezed Lancelot tighter.

–

Kay awoke to find Gawain and Lancelot still huddled together, seated across from him.

“Fuck,” Kay pulled himself up so that he was sitting on his knees, “shit, sorry, how long as I out.”

“Pretty sure I could have dumped water on your head and you would have slept through it,” Gawain informed him, “Dinner will be soon. Are you hungry?”

“Like I haven't eaten in days,” Kay told the truth.

–

“Are you the only one riding out seeking allegiance pledges?” Lancelot asked Kay over dinner.

The dining hall was empty save for the three of them, the void-like atmosphere it afforded not lost on any of them.

“No,” Kay said around a mouthful of food, then swallowed, “Apologies.”

“Eat,” Gawain urged him.

Kay took another bite. “Bedivere, Galahad, Bors, and Lionel ride out as well,” Kay told them, “We all bear seals from Mordred, but well,” Kay looked around, “I had a strange suspicion the two of you would not be surprised to hear Mordred would be on the throne.”

Lancelot spared Gawain a small glance before telling Kay _everything_.

–

“For once in my life, words fail me,” Kay said once Lancelot was done speaking.

Lancelot put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands.

Gawain put his hand on between Lancelot's shoulders, the pressure steady, but did not crowd him or try to coax him into furthering the conversation.

Kay tried to wait it out, but found himself asleep again.

–

Gawain helped Kay to a room with something besides a floor or a table for him to sleep on.

–

Gawain knocked twice to let Lancelot know he was entering.

“I don't know what to do,” Lancelot said before Gawain closed the door.

“I don't either,” Gawain admitted.

He set to making the pallet he'd been sleeping on by the door, a habit from Camelot he had not broken.

“Gawain,” Lancelot's voice was a little stronger, but still unsure.

“Lance,” Gawain stopped what he was doing and turned to face the other man.

“Would you like to sleep somewhere more comfortable tonight?” Lancelot asked.

“I am comfortable here,” Gawain assured him.

Even if Lancelot felt he may be able to sleep on his own, Gawain was sure he would not be able to sleep unless he knew Lancelot was safe, from others and from himself.

Lancelot seemed to sense the root of the hesitation, so he told Gawain: “I offer you my bed.”

“I do not want to take your own comfort from you,” Gawain shook his head.

“You wouldn't,” Lancelot's voice was steady for the first time in months.

_“Oh,”_ Gawain breathed, “I. Yes. Right.”

He climbed into Lancelot's bed slowly, as if trying to avoid any sudden movements. He was careful not to touch Lancelot, not to startle him, terrified of reminding him or _her_ even in the slightest.

There were times, Gawain knew, when Lancelot could not tell past from present as what had already came to pas swallowed him mind, body, and soul and only released him when it saw fit to do so.

In the darkness, he could still make out the rhythm of the rise and fall of Lancelot's ribcage.

“It hurts that I see the rightness in Kay's words,” Lancelot confessed once Gawain had settled.

“I know,” Gawain felt Lancelot's pain, though mostly for selfish reasons.

“You know Mordred better than everyone besides Agrivane,” Lancelot assessed, “Do you trust him?”

“As much as I trust any other untested King,” Gawain said, “though if we – if you – remain here, you will not need to be concerned with Camelot near as much as the neighbors.”

“The neighbors have not been a problem for generations,” Lancelot told him, “and all internal problems were dispatched well before I came to Camelot. Did you mean it, we?”

“Al long as you'll have me stay with you,” Gawain told him.

“Good,” there was a smile to be heard in the single word, “I'm exhausted.”

“Get some sleep,” Gawain encouraged him.

“Is it wrong that it feels a weight has been lifted?” Lancelot asked, “Knowing that Kay does not stand in opposition, I mean.”

“I do not believe so,” Gawain wasn't sure how to answer that.

Gawain listened as Lancelot's breath evened out into that of sleep.

He remained awake, vigilant, terrified of the storm that may follow the other man's sudden calm.

–

Kay slept through the night and the better part of the next day.

–

“Shit, fuck, sorry,” Kay had clearly been running, “I had no idea it was so late.”

Kay was still half in his bed clothes, hair wild and eyes still clouded with sleep.

Gawain bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the sight.

“It seems you needed the sleep,” Lancelot had far, far many more social graces than Gawain on any given day, “Go, ready yourself for the day, get some food, and we can talk allegiances.”

Kay looked himself over.

“Right,” Kay was headed back the way he came.

Gawain counted to twenty before he let himself laugh.

“Ever duty-bound,” Gawain managed to say, “Whoo, I cannot imagine that happening...anywhere else.”

_In Camelot,_ Gawain thought, _Kay never would have let himself appear so vulnerable in Camelot._

–

Kay promised to tell Mordred and Agrivane Gawain was well alongside delivering Lancelot's promise of allegiance.

Lancelot told him to try not to run the next horse to death.

Kay made no promises.

–

As Gawain watched Lancelot try to settle into life as King of Joyous Garde, he realized there would always be shadows cast by a past Lancelot had never asked for, never had a say over.

From birth to the lake to Joyous Garde to Camelot and then back to Joyous Garde, Lancelot had never had the space to make his own choices.

Gawain hoped, truly dared to hope, that the future held some kindness, at the very least for the king he now served.


End file.
